_Mont_. Orazia forced away!--what tempests roll About my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul! Can there be gods to see, and suffer this? Or does mankind make his own fate or bliss; While every good and bad happens by chance, Not from their orders, but their ignorance?-- I will pull a ruin on them all, And turn their triumph to a funeral. _Aca_. Be temperate, friend. _Mont_. You may as well advise That I should have less love, as grow more wise. _Aca_. Yet stay--I did not think to have revealed A secret, which my heart has still concealed; But, in this cause since I must share with you, 'Tis fit you know--I love Orazia too: Delay not then, nor waste the time in words, Orazia's cause calls only for our swords. _Mont_. That ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage Another way, thy blood should else assuage: The storm on our proud foes shall higher rise, And, changing, gather blackness as it flies: So, when winds turn, the wandering waves obey, And all the tempest rolls another way. _Aca_. Draw then a rival's sword, as I draw mine. And, like friends suddenly to part, let's join In this one act, to seek one destiny; Rivals with honour may together die. [_Exeunt_. ACT III. SCENE I. ZEMPOALLA _appears seated upon her Slaves in triumph, and the Indians, as to celebrate the victory, advance in a warlike dance; in the midst of which triumph_, ACACIS _and_ MONTEZUMA _fall in upon them_. ZEMPOALLA _descends from her triumphant throne, and_ ACACIS _and_ MONTEZUMA _are brought in before her. Zemp_. Shame of my blood, and traitor to thy own: Born to dishonour, not command a throne! Hast thou, with envious eyes, my triumph seen? Or couldst not see thy mother in thy queen? Couldst thou a stranger above me prefer? _Aca_. It was my honour made my duty err; I could not see his prisoners forced away, To whom I owed my life, and you the day. _Zemp_. Is that young man the warrior so renowned? _Mont_. Yes, he, that made thy men thrice quit their ground. Do, smile at Montezuma's chains; but know, His valour gave thee power to use him so. _Trax_. Grant that it did, what can his merits be, That sought his vengeance, not our victory? What has thy brutish fury gained us more, Than only healed the wounds, it gave before? Die then, for, whilst thou liv'st, wars cannot cease; Thou may'st bring victory, but never peace. Like a black storm thou roll'st about us all, Even to thyself unquiet, till thy fall. [_Draws to kill him_. _Aca_. Unthankful villain, hold! _Trax_. You must not give Him succour, sir. _Aca_. Why then, I must not live. Posterity shall ne'er report, they had Such thankless fathers, or a prince so bad. _Zemp_. You're both too bold to will or to deny: On me alone depends his destiny. Tell me, audacious stranger, whence could rise The confidence of this rash enterprise? _Mont_. First tell me, how you dared to force from me The fairest spoils of my own victory?